


Stuffed and Hollow Men

by tamerofdarkstars



Series: trope_bingo fills: round 4 [4]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, F/M, Murder Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Trope Bingo Round 4, vaguely victorian steampunk horror-ish i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-10 08:59:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3284492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamerofdarkstars/pseuds/tamerofdarkstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something violent and deadly is stalking the streets of Panem, leaving a trail of mayhem and murder in its wake. Regent Snow insists there's nothing to worry about, but Haymitch isn't so sure, especially after Cinna lands a cushy designer job in the Capitol building where everything and everyone seems to have a secret or an agenda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Thump.** _Draaaag_. **Thump.** _Draaaag._ **Thump.** _Draaaag._ **Thump.**

It moved unsteadily, hunched over to one side as it dragged its bad leg behind it. The shadows from the gas-lamps flickered over its face, and it slouched further, shrinking away from the light as though it had burned him, even though the little flames were safely ensconced in their glass prisons feet over its head.

 **Thump.** _Draaaag_. **Thump.** _Draaaag._

Step by aching step it walked, making its way one block, then another. The back alleys were deserted at this time of night - Regent Snow had made it very clear what would happen to anyone who peeked around their doors past curfew, after all - but it didn’t care. It didn’t like people. It liked shadows, and the cool breeze that carried with it the acrid odor of the gas-lamps.

 **Thump.** _Draaaag_.

Its stomach tightened as it trudged - it was hungry. So, so hungry. It’d been let go without food, sent off into the night with a scowl and the threat of the beatings again if it dared complain.

Ahead, a shadow broke the pool of light from under the gas-lamp.

Its head lifted and it sniffed the air. The air had changed - there was a new scent mixed with the gas and soot and stagnant water. Sickly sweet and fruity - artificial.

It felt a growl building low in its chest and it picked up its pace.

 **Thump** _draaag_ **thump** _draaag_ **thump** _draaag_.

 

She was dressed all in pink, from the pink of her dress and shoes to the rosy pink in her cheeks as she slumped against the hard brick of the building next to her, a hand going up to check her hair arrangement. She smelled of the artificial fruit and alcohol.

There was something familiar about her face, but it would never be able to recognize what it was. Not in this state. Not when it was so damn _hungry_.

It growled, low and soft, and watched with pleasure as that rosy pink drained from her cheeks, as her smile faded to something a little more concerned, a little more confused. This was its favorite part - the slow turn, the moment of blank incomprehension, and then…

She screamed and it lunged.

-

Haymitch sat slouched in his chair, studying his shoes. They’d been spit polished until they shone. Stupid - it wasn’t like Haymitch wore his nice shoes anymore anyway. They’d been sitting in his closet for years, tucked away in a corner with the rest of the things that brought out memories too painful to deal with.

“Here.”

He lifted his head as Cinna knelt next to him, a small silver screwdriver in one hand. “Lift.” His friend commanded and Haymitch dutifully lifted his arm. Cinna bent his head and tightened the screw that kept the cog at his elbow.

The arm was the result of years long, sleepless nights - of Cinna working his fingers to the bone, of Haymitch learning to write left-handed and to tie his shoes with only one hand. But it was beautiful - full range of motion to the slightest finger twitch, gold and silver cogs in place to keep with the pull of the metal.

He was, Haymitch supposed, extremely lucky. Lucky that he’d happened upon a young designer looking for a roommate. Lucky that Cinna hadn’t batted an eye when he’d showed up at the door with his sleeve tied off at the shoulder. Lucky that Cinna had thrown himself headfirst into a thankless project that Haymitch couldn’t afford to pay him properly for.

Cinna sat back on his heels and examined the arm. “How’s it feel?” He asked quietly and Haymitch flexed his fingers. The arm barely made a sound, which was leaps and bounds better than the first attempt at an arm Cinna had worked on - that thing had squeaked something fierce. It had driven them both insane.

“Great.” He croaked and Cinna stood, tucking the screwdriver away into his jacket pocket. He was wearing his nicest jacket - brown tweed only a little worn in the elbows. Somehow, Cinna was always able to make the shabbiest of clothes look like they’d come from the most high-end stores over in District 1. Haymitch himself was wearing the only jacket he owned, black and a little threadbare, but still presentable, even without the right sleeve. “Ready?”

Cinna’s face shuttered but he nodded, pressing his lips together. “Yes.”

They left their flat together and headed the two or so blocks it would take to reach the cemetery. It was dreary and grey, the sky heavy with unshed rain, as though it too was in mourning.

The funeral was well-attended - Portia had been in several social circles, after all. Even after she’d landed a job working in Regent Snow’s personal offices, she’d still managed to keep in touch with nearly every one of her friends.

Cinna paled considerably at the sight of the closed coffin. Sleek and polished wood, the closed lid was as ominous as it was beautiful. Closed coffin funerals were only necessary if there wasn’t enough of the body remaining to present.

“Portia.” He murmured and trailed his fingertips across the coffin lid. Haymitch stepped back respectfully as Cinna bowed his head. The two had been close, he knew. While Haymitch hadn’t known Portia quite as well, he’d liked her well enough - she had an infectious smile and an attitude to her that complimented Cinna’s to the point of hilarity.

They’d had her over for tea only last week.

And now she was dead.

 _Murdered_ , Haymitch’s mind whispered, and he shut out the thought. Now was not the time to consider the strange circumstances of her death.

 **ANOTHER SLAYING** shrieked the newspaper headlines. **REGENT SNOW REASSURES THE PEOPLE**

Snow. Ha. What a joke. The people weren’t reassured. Four women had been torn apart in the last month and the peacekeepers had no leads. The people were _terrified_.

Cinna turned around, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Let’s sit down.” He mumbled, and Haymitch followed him, feeling the back of his neck prickle. Funerals were stifling, painful and thick with tension and words-not-said. He hated it, hated every moment of the cemetery, surrounded by the dead and the grieving, feeling like he was choking, drowning, gasping for air as the stench of the city closed his throat.

He sat down next to Cinna and flexed his arm, bending it at the elbow. The cog Cinna had tightened still felt a little loose and he shook his fingers out a few times experimentally. Ah, well. It would hold until they got home.

People were filtering around, sitting down in the little benches set up for the funeral by the undertaker and his staff. Haymitch glanced over the crowd, recognizing a few people purely by face from the newspapers. That there, that was Plutarch Heavensbee, face as blank as ever, standing in the back with his arms folded. Next to him stood Seneca Crane, thinner than he’d been in his last public appearance, face drawn and pale as he stared fixedly at the coffin. Both high-ranking officials in Regent Snow’s office. Portia must have worked with them - why else would they be here?

Haymitch turned back to the front as a woman approached the coffin, clutching a handkerchief between gloved fingers. She was dressed well, with a black dress and silk gloves that must have cost more than he and Cinna made in a year, combined. As he watched, she lifted the black lace veil that obscured her face and bent to press a kiss to the coffin lid.

As she turned back, Haymitch could see that she was crying - her make-up was smeared around her eyes. She glanced at him as she let the veil fall back and they made eye-contact for a split second.

Haymitch turned away from her, back to Cinna, who was staring fixedly at his knees. “Cinna…” He started, groping for the words, but up front, a throat was being cleared for attention and the service began.

It was long and painful - every time there was a pause in the liturgy, Haymitch could hear sniffling and shaky breaths from the people around him. The sound got under his skin, making it itch, and he scratched his chest more than once.

_Was this what it was like at her funeral? A bunch of people who barely knew her, sniffling and carrying on?_

_Did she even get a funeral?_

Music was playing now, soft and sad and mournful, like the instrument itself was saying goodbye, and the coffin was lowered into the grave. Haymitch watched it vanish and felt abruptly nauseous.

The bright, vivacious friend who’d laughed in their kitchen not three days earlier was going to rot away in the ground, bit by bit, until she was altogether unrecognizable.

Murdered. Torn apart on the street like an animal.

What was the point of it all?

The service ended and Haymitch stood, helping Cinna to his feet as the attendees began to disperse.

“Excuse me.”

They turned to find the woman with the veil standing feet from them, handkerchief stained with black eye makeup. “You’re… Cinna, right?”

“Yes.” Cinna nodded, not making the effort to pretend like he hadn’t been crying. “And you are…?”

“Effie Trinket.” The woman lifted her veil. Her make-up was perfect, like she’d only just reapplied it, and Haymitch was suddenly and sharply annoyed. Who cared what they looked like so much that they’d re-apply make-up at a funeral? “I… worked with Portia. She spoke very highly of you.”

Cinna smiled tightly and nodded. “Thank you.”

She nodded back before turning to Haymitch. “Excuse me, my apologies, I didn’t get your na--”

Effie Trinket broke off abruptly, eyes on his arm, and Haymitch waited, stomach twisting. Just because he was used to this - the staring, the incessant uncomfortable apologies when they realized - didn’t mean it wasn’t any less awkward.

“Maybe if you stare a little harder, sweetheart, it’ll go away.” He snarled as the silence stretched, highly uncomfortable. The pit of his stomach clenched, roiling as the image of Portia’s face, cold and blank, beat in his brain like a neon tattoo and he just wanted to get the hell out of that cemetery so he could forget the entire day at the bottom of a bottle. Effie’s spine snapped straight, chin tilting.

“My apologies.” She said stiffly and Cinna nudged Haymitch, who forced himself to relax.

“Haymitch.” He grunted. When she looked confused, he elaborated. “My name. Haymitch.”

“Oh.” Effie cleared her throat. “Pleasure.”

The three stood in awkward silence for a moment before Effie shook her head. “Look, the reason I came over is…” She hesitated, glancing at the grave. “before Portia-- that is, before she--”

“Died.” Haymitch said flatly and Effie and Cinna winced as one.

“Before she _passed_ , Portia came to me with a request.” Effie reached into a mini black handbag Haymitch hadn’t even noticed, it blended with her outfit so well, and drew out an envelope. “Nearly every other word out of her mouth was about your talents, Cinna. May I call you Cinna?”

Cinna nodded, and Effie continued. “She wanted me to offer you a position with us. So you could work together, she said. She swore you’d be an excellent addition, and under the circumstances…” Effie trailed off and pressed the envelope into Cinna’s hand. “Well, it’s dreadful, isn’t it? Doing this at a funeral? But I want to honor that wish.”

“You’re offering me a job?” Cinna asked faintly.

Haymitch was equally floored. The process to get a designer position at the Capitol building was extensive and bureaucratic - often designers sat on the waiting list for _decades_ before they were even considered for an interview. And if they managed to clear all that, they had to pass one of the most brutal interview processes in the city. No one just jumped the list like this.

“If you’re interested.” Effie said and Cinna gripped the envelope. Effie’s hand vanished back into the bag and came back with a business card, small and white and stark against the black of her ensemble. “Here’s my personal line in the offices - please take a few days and think about it.”

Cinna took the card and nodded, more than a little stunned. Effie put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, lips twisted in a sympathetic smile. “She would have wanted us to move on.” Effie said softly. “Not to dwell on this.”

Cinna swallowed hard and nodded, and Haymitch watched Effie nod. They met eyes again, just for the briefest of moments, before she nodded to him as well and turned away, crossing the grass to where Plutarch Heavensbee was waiting, alone, under a large elm tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with a bright and shiny new Hunger Games fic! Yay! Not sure how long this is gonna end up being, but I've got a basic plot down so hopefully updates will be relatively quick.
> 
> The title comes from the TS Eliot poem "Hollow Men" - 
> 
> We are the hollow men  
> We are the stuffed men  
> Leaning together  
> Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of vomit/throwing up

The doors to the front entrance hall of the Capitol building had been built by decades of designers – metalsmiths, steamworkers, woodcarvers – and were massive, imposing towering structures. Liquid lines of smooth metal and intricate wood-carved details made up the entire face of the most famous set of double doors in the city.

Cinna stared at the doors for a moment, taking in details he’d long since memorized, like the way the metalsmiths had designed the thorns of the rose details that arched up the sides of the doors. He put his hand on the handle with a thrill of nerves.

This was really happening. He’d walked past this door so many times in the past, but this was the first time he was actually going to enter the building.

He wished his palms weren’t quite so sweaty.

The doors creaked as he shoved them inwards, stepping into the lofty entrance. The floor was a white stone, polished to such a shine that Cinna could nearly see his reflection – but that wasn’t the amazing bit. What stopped Cinna in his tracks, barely inside, and sent the shiver of anticipation down his spine was the ticking. A deep, resonating thudding that echoed off the polished stone and bounced around the entrance. It was as though the walls themselves were alive, heaving and groaning with the weight of some eternal clock that ticked on and on, its cogs hidden from view.

There was a girl at the massive mahogany desk, fingers clicking away on a tiny black typewriter.

_Click click click shnnnng!_

_Click click click shnnnng!_

The girl at the desk barely looked up as he approached, feeling every threadbare patch on his jacket. “Excuse me.”

The girl continued to type. She had long sharp fingernails, filed to an almost deadly point and painted as orange as her hair. Her eyes were heavy with make-up, an almost violent gold that matched the strips of metal twisted into her up-do. She wore leather cuffs around both wrists and Cinna presumed probably her ankles as well. It was the fashion these days, after all.

Cinna licked his lips. “Excuse me.” He repeated, tapping his fingertips restlessly against his thigh.

The girl sighed deeply and stopped typing, looking up and giving him a very slow once over. Cinna tipped his head, keeping his face impassive. Finally, she returned her gaze to his eyes. “Name?” She asked.

“Cinna,” Cinna said, leaning against the desk. “I’m here to see Effie Trinket?”

The girl raised a perfectly manicured orange eyebrow. She had a bar pierced through the top of the arch. “Effie Trinket?”

“That’s right.” Not for the first time, a creeping tendril of doubt wormed its way into his heart. “I have… an appointment.”

The girl frowned and typed, a bit slower than before. “Effie Trinket doesn’t make appointments.”

“Well, perhaps she made an exception.”

The girl snorted and Cinna felt his temper grow shorter, a product of stress and nerves and that stupid lingering doubt that maybe, just maybe, he dreamt the entire thing.

_Click click click shnnnng!_

_Click click click shnnnng!_

“Cinna!”

Relief, sharp as a knife, stabbed up through his stomach and he turned to find Effie Trinket herself striding towards them, heels click-clacking on the stone. “I wondered whether you’d changed your mind.”

She stepped close, kissing both his cheeks, one after the other, as light and as airy as if they’d known each other all their lives. Effie was dressed all in purple and gold, with shimmering sparkles in her eyelashes and a metallic sheen on her lips. She too was wearing the leather cuffs around her wrists and ankles. “Are you ready?” She asked, gripping his hand. Her grip was tight, almost too tight, and she looked positively wound up with energy.

Cinna offered her a half-smile and she returned the gesture. “Come,” she said, releasing him and turning away. “Follow me. I’ll show you around.”

Cinna nodded at the girl behind the desk, who was watching them with open interest, and followed Effie, feeling rather smug. She led him to a cleverly-hidden door in the wall, opening it with a twist of her hand. It slid open with a rattle, and they stepped into a clean, crisp hallway.

The ticking grew louder.

“I’m really quite happy you decided to take me up on my offer,” Effie said, raising her voice, “even though we met under such dreadful circumstances… Ah, here we are.”

She led him to a bank of elevators, ushering him inside one and pressing a button. The doors – polished gold grates – clanged shut and the elevator rumbled upwards. Effie kept up a running commentary that Cinna was only half following, about this person or that co-worker, but when the doors unlatched open on the thirtieth floor, she fell silent, watching the side of his face for his reaction.

“This is where you’ll work.” She said simply, and nudged Cinna forward. There were crafting stations everywhere, color and lines and circles and bright, chattering people, running this way and that. Machinery scraped and fingernails tapped, click-clacked against polished lacquer and chunks of metal as lips painted every color imaginable curved in delighted, knowing smiles.

It was simultaneously everything and nothing like what he expected it to be, and all with that constant, heavy ticking the soundtrack to every action.

Effie laughed delightedly and Cinna allowed himself to be swept forward into the chaos.

The brush of shoulder against shoulder as the slight figure in the dark grey pageboy cap shoved past him into the elevator went almost totally unnoticed.

-

Twelve hours before Cinna stood contemplating doors, Johanna Mason was hunched against the far wall of her cell, throwing up her dinner.

“Johanna.”

Johanna barely looked up, clutching at her stomach. It protested giving up what little nutrients the meal contained.

“Johanna, it’s not gonna work!”

Johanna coughed, reaching up and wiping her mouth with the back of a hand. “Got a better idea?” She croaked, throat raw. She straightened up and turned around. Her cell was a box, large enough to pace but not enough to get up any measurable speed if she ran from wall to wall. Three of the walls were made of clear, layered glass. No privacy, no protection.

Katniss’s jaw was set, face stubborn. Her forehead was streaked with dirt and her braid was frayed, but she was still up. Still standing, despite everything that had happened to them. Johanna examined her, examined her sunken cheeks and the awkward way she held her left arm. The beast had gotten stronger. Johanna wasn’t sure they would make it through another fortnight, even working together.

“It’s the only way.” She said, flat and even. Katniss slapped the glass in frustration, leaving a smudge of dirt and blood. Johanna frowned sharply.

“You’re bleeding?”

Katniss shook her head. “Not important. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Then I die.” Johanna stepped forwards, forcing her exhausted body to obey her brain. “Then I die escaping. Don’t you get it? How stupid are you?” She pressed a hand to the glass on the other side of Katniss’s dirt smudge. “I die here, fighting a monster out of the pits of Hell, or I die trying to get the fuck out of here. Either way, I’m gonna die. _We’re_ gonna die.”

She took a deep breath. Her head swam but Katniss had her hand pressed against the glass and Johanna forced herself to focus. “Are you coming with me?”

Katniss hesitated and Johanna ripped her hand away from the glass, turning around and stalking across the cell. The air stank of body odor and vomit and the lights flickered harsh above them. “Johanna. I can’t—”

Johanna knelt and examined her own vomit, plucking the thin strip of metal up off the ground.

“I can’t leave Peeta.” Katniss whispered and Johanna closed her eyes, letting the words sting.

“I know.” She said finally, standing up and turning back around. “But I can.”

“Johanna—”

“But I’ll come back for you.”

Katniss froze. “Johanna, you can’t.”

“Shut up, Katniss.”

“ _Johanna_ —”

“Shut up.” Johanna hissed. “I’m not leaving you here to rot. You or Peeta or any of them. I’m getting out and getting help and then I’m coming back, stronger and better and I’m going to _take these bastards down_.”

Katniss hissed angrily and turned away, stalking to the other wall. Johanna watched her for a second, then tore her eyes away and began bending the scrap of metal, forcing herself to focus. Every night, the silent Avox that patrolled the corridors took a last walk through before turning on the great golden cogs that cranked out the steam grid, filling the hallway outside their cells with a swirling steam thick as the fog that blanketed the city at night. Steam that would peel the skin from their bodies in seconds.

Johanna would have precious few seconds to get the door open and race to the elevator to freedom. She would take it as high as she could get and hide, find a disguise, something to throw off suspicion until she could sneak out with the crowds.

She would have to be perfectly invisible.

If she was caught…

Johanna swallowed tightly and didn’t turn around, didn’t look at Katniss. Katniss had saved her life down here more than once. It was Johanna’s turn to repay her debt.

“Fine. Then I won’t come back,” Johanna spat, trying to feel the words, to dig up some of that old, familiar rage. “I’ll leave you here to die. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To die down here?”

She spun around. Katniss was facing her now, back against the far glass, lips pressed into a thin line white with anger. Johanna laughed, bitter and low.

“After all, it’s not like we were actually _friends_.”

“Stop.”

“Well, I got news for you, Katniss. I’m outta here and that’s the last you’re gonna see of me.”

Katniss made a strangled noise and clenched a fist, like she wanted something to hit, something to lash out at. For a moment, the two girls stood there and stared at each other, waiting poised for the other to strike.

Katniss opened her mouth, eyes bright and cheeks pink, and down the hall, the elevator clanged, the grate rattling.

It was time.

The tension in the air evaporated immediately, replaced by a sucking vacuum of panic. Johanna let out a slow breath and sank to the floor, keeping the metal shard tight against her wrist under her sleeve. Katniss hissed something that might have been her name, might have been nothing but wordless air, and tucked herself away into the corner.

The Avox were right on schedule, walking swiftly and silently. The light from their gas lamps bounced through the glass, playing over Johanna’s downturned face. She stared at the floor, counting the shadows. One, two, three…

She pushed herself up and flitted across the cell. Johanna made swift work of the lock, scraping the tumblers and nudging the door open on soundless hinges.

She was seconds from freedom. Or, seconds from death.

Heads or tails. Freedom or death.

Now or never.

Johanna held her breath and ran like hell.

She didn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man oh man this world is fuuuuunn guys I spend more time daydreaming about this 'verse than I probably should. 
> 
> Random detail! Cinna is a designer, which in this world is anyone who creates with metal or wood or steam. There are three main subcategories under the umbrella of being a designer, mainly metalsmiths, steamworkers, and woodcarvers. The Capitol employs a whole slew of them for various totally non-suspicious things. Cinna works mainly with metal and steam. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
